


cornucopia

by Haumeia (Empatheia)



Category: Darker Than Black
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Ficlet, Food Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-14
Updated: 2009-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empatheia/pseuds/Haumeia
Summary: Bare skin, chocolate, a free afternoon.
Relationships: Hei/Kirihara Misaki





	cornucopia

**Author's Note:**

> Written on request for JoJo-kun @LJ, who challenged me to write erotica and bribed me with the prospect of accompanying art. I was and still am primarily a gen writer with very little confidence in my smut skills, so this had me stretching out of my comfort zone. It's still pretty vague and prosey, though, because it's me.
> 
> Prompt: Hei/Misaki, food sex

Misaki is afraid to breathe.

The scent of chocolate is overpowering, a living thing crawling into her nostrils and drugging her mind until it is all she can feel. The table is no longer cold under her naked back, but the air in her apartment is cool and the goosebumps refuse to subside.

"Don't move," he murmurs, almost absently, reaching for the bowl of dried cranberries and drawing twisting red patterns in the chocolate with them down her legs like tattoos.

Try as she might, she can't remember how they got here. Usually the things that lead up to this sort of thing -- frantic kisses against the counter, cold hands under shirts and hot breath on collarbones -- lead to something else, and usually to some _where_ else, namely the bed.

But today, for some reason, he is in a different mood, and so she is lying on her back on the hastily cleared dinner table with an artistic culinary masterpiece taking shape over the pale landscape of her skin. The base is chocolate, great potfuls of it kept warm in the oven until he is ready to pour it over her skin in hot, viscous rivers. It cools, but the heat of her skin keeps it from hardening entirely in most places. And into the thick layer of dark sweet lava he has pressed fruits and pastries in convoluted patterns, like an edible mandala covering her entire body. There are, she is fairly certain, slices of pineapple and blood orange on her face, arranged like stripes of warpaint.

If it were anyone else, she would feel ridiculous.

It's Hei. She doesn't.

He stands back and regards her with a look of unmistakable satisfaction... for one moment, before it is replaced with one of undisguised hunger.

"Have you been starving yourself all day?" She means it to be flippant, teasing, but it comes out hoarse and curious instead.

The look in his eyes as he drags them up her body to meet her own tell her everything she needs to know.

He starts with her feet.

As he moves upwards the messy remnants of chocolate and fruit smear onto his skin, gluing his skin to hers as it dries. He studiously avoids the junction of her thighs, wandering around her hips, across her belly, and over to her hand instead, then proceeding to devour his way up her arm, across her shoulders, and down the other arm. He leaves the place he knows are sensitive -- her breasts, her belly, the tense arch of her throat -- for last, because he can be subtly cruel when an occasion calls for it.

Misaki is nearly weeping with frustration before he is even halfway finished, her desire to move intensified by the need to stay still.

"Please," she whispers, but he does not answer, only smiles against her clavicle and drags one hand through the smeared ganache from her hip under her back, coaxing her body up to grant his ravenous mouth better access.

She is an educated woman. She knows chocolate has no known scientific effect on skin sensitivity. And yet, every place he touches her gets steadily hotter, and as his mouth wanders it leaves smoldering burns in its wake.

When at last he kneels over her and pulls her upwards into his embrace, stray remnants of fruits and flakes of chocolate raining from her skin onto the table, the floor, his skin, she is loose as a rag doll, nearly insensate with the slow crawl of pleasure through her nerves. She is partially revived, however, when he kisses her as though dying of thirst, passionate in a way she knows he would never show anywhere else but here with her. It has taken her two years to find this in him and she will do anything to keep it from vanishing behind the mask again.

Anything.

His mouth is bittersweet with the cocoa staining his lips and tongue. Misaki cannot seem to get enough with only this.

Whispering her fingers down his chest, drawing long, sweeping lines in the dark residue, she mutely invites him to come closer yet.

He accepts, and she opens her mouth in a soundless, strangled cry as in one movement, he dives into her and comes as close as he possibly can. And then he begins to move, tortuously slow, and her world goes pale.

Tomorrow she will have bruises, she knows, where the hard wooden tabletop is merciless against her shoulderblades and spine and hips, but right now she cannot feel anything at all but the controlled tide of his wanting, ebbing and flowing to the rhythm of her breath as though she were the moon.

His lips are everywhere now — her temples, her forehead, her throat, the underside of her jaw -- everywhere but her mouth, and no matter how she chases him she cannot seem to catch him. His dark hair fills her vision, a damp sea fragrant with the sandalwood soap he prefers, and she buries her face in it just for something else to feel since he will not stop running.

"Misaki," he murmurs into the hollow between her breasts, back arching as he strives to hold himself back.

She has no such compunctions. Writhing against him, she calls him by every name she knows of his that he'll answer to, and none of them are enough because none of them are true, but she has long since given up trying to wrestle the real one from him. Though they are like this, she is still a policewoman, compelled by curiosity to investigate even when she should not. She knows why he does not dare give her his real name, but in times like this she wishes he would make a mistake, just this once.

He will not, of course. She has never seen him slip up even slightly. No matter what he does, he does it perfectly, and this is no— exception—

Misaki reaches the edge of the precipice and plummets over it, hardly hearing herself as sounds tear from her throat, primal and unrestrained. Her fingernails dig cruelly into the thin flesh of his back, but she knows he does not mind— pain has been his companion for a very long time, and he has learned to find at least this much pleasure in it.

He will follow soon, she knows, and so does not even attempt to slow her convulsive, twisting fall through the familiar blinding cascades of pleasure.

And sure enough, bare moments later he gives a hitched gasp into her throat and moves up suddenly to kiss her with ferocity, hardly breathing as he reaches his own summit and goes rigid and trembling against her. His expression is hidden behind a curtain of dark hair but she does not need to see his face to know what it looks like in this moment: shattered, undone, unbearably beautiful.

She has seen it a hundred times before, can draw it behind her shuttered eyelids with a moment's thought.

With a long, sweet sigh, he slumps over her, trapping her between his body and the sticky table, arms curling gently around her shoulders in the aftermath of passion.

Misaki smiles to herself and returns the half-embrace with her own, fingers gently smoothing away the wounds she's opened before coming to rest in the dip below his ribcage.

She wonders if she will ever tire of wanting him, and tasting the chocolate still sweet and dark on her tongue, thinks it unlikely.

X

**Author's Note:**

> Work is intentionally this length, complete, and will not be updated.


End file.
